


Cabin in the Woods

by HazelDomain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boys In Love, Cuddling, Feels, First Kiss, First Time, I Love You, Incest, Love Confessions, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing Body Heat, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Sleeping Bag Sex, So Wrong It's Right, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:43:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6177034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/pseuds/HazelDomain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean get caught at Rufus's cabin during a blizzard. The lights go out. It gets cold. Predictable hijinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cabin in the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> [Picture of Rufus's cabin,](https://p.dreamwidth.org/22d313074e3d/-/i614.photobucket.com/albums/tt228/FirebirdFlying/12.jpg) for reference. Look at the picture because I'm not describing the layout because we all know you're here for sass and penises, not scenery descriptions.

“There’s nothing in the basement, either.”

“Maybe outside?”

Sam shrugged.

“Maybe? I’m not going out there to look.”

“Christ, what a shitshow.”

Rufus’s cabin was never meant to be a permanent residence. More like a summer hunting cabin or a fall getaway. The insulation in the place was passable in decent weather, which was not what they were experiencing now.

The wind howled around the building, seeping in through cracks and making Dean’s lighter sputter. They only had the one, (and really? They lit shit on fire every damn day, how did Sam not have a lighter yet? Dean had been nagging him for _years._ ) and Dean was currently using it to search for candles while Sam looked for generator fuel.

They had _assumed_ that the gas cans stacked in the basement were filled with gasoline, but they’d forgotten that _Rufus_ was the one who put them there. They’d been dismayed but not particularly shocked when they’d gone to fill the generator and discovered the cans filled with what appeared to be moonshine.

Dean poured a glass despite Sam’s disapproving look. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought the cans might have originally held diesel. Or maybe that’s just how Rufus’s moonshine tasted.

He’d freeze to death, but at least he’d be warm while he did it.  

Snow was piling up alongside one wall of the cabin, and Sam helpfully remarked that snow was actually a fantastic insulator. And then he started talking about Esquimaux igloos and some thing about R values.

Dean poured himself another drink.

Fortunately, what the cabin lacked in electricity, it made up for in firewood. They’d spent weeks here while Dean was laid up with a bum leg, and Sam, exercise freak that he was, had spent a lot of his time outside with an axe.

With the furnace and generator both out of commission, the task of keeping them alive fell to the stone fireplace on one wall of the cabin. Dean figured that once the stone chimney got up to temperature, the retained heat ought to keep the cabin tolerable until the storm passed.

He might have been imagining it, but Dean thought it started to get warmer the moment he lit the balled newspaper on fire. He piled a couple sticks of kindling on top of the tiny flame, and the dry cedar caught almost immediately. Within half an hour, he had a respectable blaze going and the hearth was starting to warm up.

Sam had gone through the entire cabin, basement included, gathering up every blanket he could find. The metal bunk beds were pushed into the corner by the fireplace, and it was onto this that Sam stacked the meager collection of afghans and army blankets.

Dean threw a couple more logs on and then crawled into bed. He almost immediately missed the fire. The bunk beds were shitty on a good day, not long enough for Dean, let alone Sam, but with the cabin cold and drafty, it was damn near intolerable. The thin mattresses were held up off the ground and provided little insulation against the cold air. After fifteen minutes of shivering, Dean announced “fuck it” and dragged his mattress off the bed and over onto the ground near the fire. The concrete there was warmer, but it wasn’t gonna last all night.

“Sam, get down here.”

Sam’s head popped out of the bundle of blankets he’d made on the top bunk.

“I’m too cold to move.”

“Quit bitching and get over here. We’ll zip the sleeping bags together and pile the blankets on top.”

“Really? Zip the bags together? That’s your plan?”

“Yeah, it’ll be like that time Dad went out to kill a yeti and left us in that off-season chalet.”

“Is it weird that this isn’t the first time we’ve been in this situation?”

“About as weird as the fact that Dad left us to go _hunt a yeti._ You coming or what?”

Sam dragged his mattress over next to Dean’s, turning them sideways to keep them out of range of popping embers. The sleeping bags didn’t want to zip together, leading to quite a bit of swearing while the boys huddled under the army blankets and tried to coax the zippers into cooperating.

Dean had another drink. Sam made that disapproving face and said something about vasodilation. Dean flipped him off and told him he was just jealous because he was too much of a little bitch to handle deiselshine.

“You’re going to freeze to death, but at least you’re warm,” Sam said when they’d wriggled into the sleeping bag together.

It was a little less comfortable than it had been all those winters ago in the chalet. For one thing, they were both too tall to fit without bending their knees, leading to a bit of awkward fumbling while they tried to situate themselves inside the cramped bag.

“Face the other way, man.”

“No way, of all the possible ways this is happening, we are not going to _spoon._ ” Dean paused. “And anyway, you’re the obvious choice for little spoon.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“Whatever. You’re radiating heat. Your blood is all near the surface of your skin, which means it’s cooling off. You’re going to be utterly frozen when the alcohol wears off.”

“You’re the best pillow talker ever, Sammy,” Dean said, burrowing down into the bag. He ended up pressed against Sam, his head on the other man’s bicep, their legs tangled together. Sam had one arm around him, and it reminded Dean of how they used to sleep when they were younger. Living out of hotel rooms meant that, more often than not, he and Sammy had shared a bed, all the way up until Sam left for college. More than once they’d even shared the backseat of the impala.

They didn’t live a life that leant itself to personal boundaries. Physical or emotional. Dean had been the one to talk Sam through puberty, through morning wood, through wet dreams and talking to girls and learning to shave. They’d spent countless hundreds of hours sparring, learning to dodge and twist and tackle. Dean could remember the first time Sam had pinned him to the motel carpet, and how proud he’d been, even in defeat. He was glad to know that Sam could protect himself.

And he knew his brother’s body from the times Sam couldn’t protect himself. He’d reset his brother’s shoulder more than once. Put in hundreds of stitches. There wasn’t an inch of Sam that Dean hadn’t bandaged or taped up or stitched.

“Dean?”

He snapped back to the present and realized that his hand was on Sam’s hip. His fingers had slipped under his brother’s loose sleep shirt, and his thumb was making lazy circles over the jut of one hipbone.

He jerked his hand back, then realized there was nowhere else for it to _go._

“Sorry, just… lost in thought.”

“Thoughts about what?”

Dean looked up at Sam, and realized Sam was looking back down at him, their faces only a few inches apart.

“You,” Dean answered honestly, watching in the firelight for that look of disapproval which Sam had perfected over the years.

It didn’t come.

“What about me?” Sam asked softly.

“Just… how you’ve grown up.”

The fire popped. Sam didn’t respond. He was looking down at Dean with an expression Dean had never seen before, maybe a little like sadness, or a little like fear.

Dean leaned up and kissed him. It felt like the thing to do. His fingers tightened on Sam’s hip, pulling him in, pulling him close. Where he belonged.

“Dean…”

He was expecting a reproach, a protest, but this wasn’t that. Sam’s hands were on his back, pulling him in, like if they got close enough they’d be safe.

“I love you,” Sam whispered, and Dean frowned, because they hadn’t told each other that in years. Dean used to say it when Sammy was little, because he remembered it was what Mary had said. But John wasn’t big on platitudes, and as they got older, Dean stopped saying it, too.

“Yeah, alright, ya big sap,” Dean said, meaning it as a joke, but when it came out it sounded more like a question.

“I mean it,” Sam answered, and he was leaning back into Dean, kissing him with an urgency he hadn’t had before. “I love you.”

Dean didn’t know how to answer, so he answered by kissing back, opening his mouth and letting his brother press into him, exploring. Sam’s mouth was hot and soft and Dean realized he was getting turned on.

It should bother him. He was attracted to women, their soft curves and soft voices which had nothing in common with the firm, rugged man pressing against him now.

It should bother him, but it didn’t. Dean wasn’t into men, but Sam didn’t feel like a man. Sam’s body felt like coming home again.

He nipped at Sam’s lower lip, then rolled, shifting onto his back, pulling Sam over on top of him. Their legs tangled together and they had to break the kiss while they figured out the position. Sam pushed up off Dean, letting a huge burst of freezing air under the covers, and Dean pulled him back down. Sam ended up straddling his brother, bodies slotted together, pressing kisses against each other, one after another.

“ _Dean,_ ” Sam breathed, and Dean could feel his lips move as he said it, whisper-light against his mouth. It went like a lightning bolt straight to his dick, and he rolled his hips upward. He was trapped under Sam, hard pressure holding him down. Heat was pooling in his belly like a fire and he rolled his hips again, moaning at the friction.

Sam shifted and then they were lying belly to belly and Dean could feel Sam was hard too, trapped between the two of them. He looked up at Sam, saw that same sad-scared look on his face. His hazel eyes were dark in the firelight, and there was a question there. Dean cupped his brother’s face in his hands, pulling him in and answering with a kiss.

Sam groaned, grinding down against Dean’s body, the friction between them wonderful but not nearly enough. Dean snaked a hand down, pushing Sam’s pajama pants out of the way and wrapping his hand around both their shafts.

Sam’s motions turned jerky, erratic, pushing desperately into Dean’s hand. Dean tried to keep hold of both of them, his brother’s cock sliding along against his own, both of them held in one hand and trapped between the heavy weight of their bodies. Dean slid his thumb up along the slit of Sam’s dick, feeling the precome beading there. It smoothed the way and he stroked up over both heads, twisting slightly to coat his fingers in it.

Sam took his weight onto his elbows, giving Dean room to work. He’d lost all semblance of coherency and had even given up on kissing. Instead he was leaving a trail of little sucking bites down Dean’s jaw and throat. He was rough, insistent, not like the lovers Dean had had before. He felt his cock harden a little further when he thought of the peppered bruises that would be there in the morning.

With Sam’s weight off him he found a rhythm, pulling up over the head and then pushing back down to squeeze the base. It was odd, and rough, and then Sam’s hand closed around his and their fingers interlaced and the pressure was _all around him_ and he pushed upwards into Sam. The fire in his belly was tightening like a bowstring and all he could think of was _right there right there right there_ and then the bowstring released and he was coming with a groan. Slippery come coated their fingers and it was amazing and then it was too much _too much_ and Sam was coming too as Dean writhed under him.

 

For a long time they just laid there, afraid to move in case it would break whatever post-coital truce was keeping them from having to address what just happened.

And then the come started to leak through Dean’s shirt and he wriggled around, pulling it off and using it to wipe off his hands and cock. Sam rolled to the side, not looking at Dean, but he took the shirt-turned-cum-rag when Dean handed it to him.

The fire popped.

“I love you,” Sam said again, quietly, and they both knew it didn’t mean the same thing it had meant when they were young.

“Yeah, get over here, I’m freezing,” Dean answered, turning his back and settling back against Sam’s broad chest. Sam put an arm across his waist, lacing his fingers into Dean’s.

It wasn’t spooning. Dean didn’t _spoon._

But he thought he might get used to whatever this was.

**Author's Note:**

> [Original prompt.](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/105944.html?thread=40100312#t40100312) I'm gonna try to do at least three kinky one-shot fills today as part of the Annual Melee of Kindness. I'm nontraditional like that. Wish me luck.


End file.
